Epiphany
by Wendigo1
Summary: Anya's final stand. Spoilers for episode 7x22, "Chosen". Slight Anya/Xander, hints of Anya/Andrew.


Epiphany  
  
Author: Wendigo (yup, it's my first fanfic! Yay me!)  
  
Title: "Epiphany"  
  
Spoilers: For 'Chosen', the final episode. ***DO NOT READ ON*** if you have not yet seen the episode.  
  
Feedback: It's always annoyed me when authors are constantly begging for feedback. I finally get that, though. Guess I was lacking in the empathy department before...  
  
Distribution: If anyone wants it, I'd go dance. Please ask first, though. My email is valf823@hotmail.com. Don't be shy, I don't bite. :)  
  
Pairings: Mostly reminders of Anya/Xander, and some hints of Anya/Andrew which could be viewed as platonic.   
  
Rating: Fairly safe, maybe a very light PG-13. If you're under ten or eleven... well, you probably shouldn't be watching BtVS anyway. My disclaimer has some 'mature ideas' mentioned in it, but you're pretty much safe. ;)  
  
Summary: Anya's last thoughts just after the Bringers attack her and Andrew. Short, bitter, angsty, and dark. You have been warned.  
  
Disclaimer: It's a nightmare, really. Some strange kid calling herself 'Wendigo' appears to have been stalking me for the past few months, and I never even noticed. I thought something was strange when I kept on seeing her, though. Reading a magazine at the supermarket, waiting in the green room with me just before a speech... even in the men's toilets, enthusiastically taking pictures as I tried to water the lilies, y'know? I figured something was up after this continued for a few months. I phoned the cops, and from their evidence, it turns out that she's been the one taking my characters for unwanted pornographic photography, which is apparently a huge underground trade among fangirls and fanboys alike. Turns out she has some sick fetish with Spike, and decided to take the rest of them to "keep him company" in the (shudder) photos. We managed to get them all back, but half of them were permanently mentally scarred. Poor Giles will never be the same...  
  
Now, on with the story...  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Nature's first green is gold,  
  
Her hardest hue to hold.  
  
Her early leaf's a flower;  
  
But only so an hour.  
  
Then leaf subsides to leaf.  
  
So Eden sank to grief,  
  
So dawn goes down to day.  
  
Nothing gold can stay.  
  
- Robert Frost  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Falling. Surprised.  
  
Knife. Cold.  
  
Bringer. Fast.  
  
Pain. Burning.  
  
Why is there pain?  
  
Oh, yeah. Knife.  
  
Fought well. I thought I was doing alright for a minute there. I think Xander would be proud of me.  
  
Oh, Xander... I'm sorry. I think I forgot to say goodbye. Guess it's too late now.  
  
Burning subsides to numbness. All that pesky mortality stuff; even now, I still sometimes forget about that. Maybe that's the reason I forgot how to dodge a sword.  
  
Hmm. Something in my back feels... wrong. Maybe something happened to my spine. Is that why there's numbness? Xander would probably know. Xander... to think I'll never watch sports with him again, or hear him tell me that he likes the taste of my lip gloss. I miss him already.  
  
Screams. Inhuman.   
  
Clashing. Swords.  
  
Dead flesh thumping against the lockers, a sickening rustle of limp fabric as a freshly decapitated body slides drunkenly to the floor.  
  
Andrew tosses his sword aside with a deafening clatter against the cool linoleum.  
  
Andrew's tears on my neck. Melodramatic prick. Andrew's tears on the floor. My blood mingling with Andrew's tears. Andrew's tears, stained red.  
  
Why is there blood?  
  
Oh, yeah. Knife.  
  
"A-Anya? Oh my God, Anya..." An eternal pause before he speaks again. His words ride a breath that is so soft, I barely hear it. "Thank you."   
  
A chaste, awkward kiss is dropped unceremonially onto my forehead as his young ears pick up the thunder of far-off footsteps. He scrambles to his feet.  
  
You're welcome.  
  
Here they come, kiddo. You ready?  
  
That's ok. Neither am I.   
  
Here they come. And here I go.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
There is no final words or heartbreaking deathbed speech, as a final gasp escapes Anya's slashed lungs, and she lies still. Andrew cradles her lifeless body in his available arm, and allows two twin droplets to trickle down his flushed face before taking up his sticky broadsword again. Bringers' footsteps in the distance, closing in. Closing in fast. But he's ready for them. With an utterly inhuman warcry, he charges them.  
  
He will see to it that she shall not remain unavenged.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
In bittersweet memory of Anyanka Jenkins.  
  
860 AD (approx.)-2003.  
  
*May your death bring you the peace you never found in life.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Final Author's Note:  
  
I thought a Vulcan prayer and a virgin fanfiction might help the wound Anya left in our hearts. I know that I, for one, cried my eyes out during that scene. Death is a transformation, and every transformation, however swift, always holds pain. She went out without a chance for bang or a whimper, and I sure hope Andrew gave those Bringers hell for her. Ergo, this fanfiction. Turns out it was more angst-relief therapy for me, seeing as how I'm still in shock over poor Spike. *whimper*...  
  
Reviews are much appreciated. :)  
  
*Jeez, just realized this needs a second disclaimer... ok. Gene Roddenbury and Star Trek staff = genius. Me = copycat. Deal with it. 


End file.
